


Black and Blue

by Ginger_puff



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brief suicidal ideation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Order Poe Dameron, Force Bond (Star Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Jedi Ben Solo, Panic Attacks, Poe Dameron Hurts So Prettily, Slow Burn, Space Mom Leia Organa, TFA remix, force torture, knightpilot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22110037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_puff/pseuds/Ginger_puff
Summary: Lieutenant Commander PO-12 is the best damn pilot in the First Order. Until he's not.Guess these rebels will have to do.A retelling of The Force Awakens
Relationships: Implied Poe Dameron/Original Male Character(s), Leia Organa/Han Solo, Poe Dameron & Finn, Poe Dameron/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Black and Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome and thank you for reading! I want to be upfront about two things in this AU. First, Ben Solo is not Kylo Ren here. Somebody else wears that mantle. So if you're looking for strictly Poe/Kylo Ren I'm sorry but this isn't it. Second, please read the warning below and be assured that absolutely nothing happens between Poe and Finn in this or any future chapters. 
> 
> More tags will be added as the story progresses.
> 
> **WARNING: There is off-screen/non-explicit implications of sexual abuse in this chapter. It is not a major component of this story and no abuse occurs in the future. Characters may talk about their past experiences in later chapters but this will also be non-explicit.**

Tuanul Village. Jakku. A straightforward escort detail, but some days the itch to fly is so consuming that even the best pilot in the fleet will take whatever’s available. Still. Lieutenant Commander PO-12 has to hold back a yawn as the Resistance leader surrenders himself as ransom for the villagers. “Because it's the right thing to do,” The man claims, voice tinny through the speakers of his helmet. 

Instead the man is subdued, made to watch as the villagers are slaughtered, and then executed. 

PO-12 watches impassively from the cockpit. Screaming, weeping, the last-break attempts to flee or fight. Those never change no matter what planet they’re on. His focus is solely on the open comlink and stormtrooper FN-2187 standing in the firing squad, sharp eyes drawn to the slight tremor in black-gloved hands as he trains his weapon a scant few degrees above the line of Resistance fighters kneeling in the sand and thinks that someday this kid will be the death of him.

  
  
  
  


“-edi temple. Where Skywalker is holed up.”

PO-12 halts at the threshold of Black Squadron’s ready room. 

“What, that little astromech?” 

“The one Phasma’s platoon let get away.”

“General Hux is furious. Supreme Leader desires the droid above all else. I overheard Captain Peavey say Lord Ren himself is being dispatched to retrieve it.” 

As one the assembled pilots snap to attention when he enters the narrow room, striding past the duty desk to take his place at the small podium. Pilot TY-49 offers a crisp, precise salute on behalf of the Squadron and nobody seems to breathe until he nods and permits them to sit with a curt gesture. 

“Black Squadron is scheduled for a formation sortie. You will demonstrate close and tactical formation and formation approach maneuvers,” PO-12 recites the assignment by rote, a tattoo of phaser bolts and the image of Eight-Seven on his knees in moonlit pale sands lingering in his mind. 

  
  
  
  


He never speaks of it, but Eight-Seven is deeply affected by what he saw on Jakku. The trooper dreams about it at night, often startling awake with a cry. Or so FN-2000 claims. 

PO-12 seeks him out, utilizing his privilege as an officer to enter FN Corps berthing during the next night cycle. He tolerates the silent judgment of the trooper on guard. Sith knows that if another officer entered the TIE Pilot Corps berthing with the intent currently being ascribed to himself he would rip their throats out with his teeth. 

Eight-Seven wakes in an instant, staring blankly at the light gray officer’s uniform until recognition sparks in his eyes. He doesn't bother dressing, just follows under the glow of the red running lights. When the compartment door hisses shut Eight-Seven flops bonelessly onto his bunk. PO-12 keys his security code to lock the door and takes his time removing first his belt, then jacket and boots. Eight-Seven moans obscenely, wriggling between the scratchy gray blanket and over-starched sheet. 

“Really committing over there,” he chides. 

Eight-Seven’s embarrassment is palpable even across the room so he tosses his cover at the kid’s face and gets to the point. “You haven’t been sleeping.” 

“No,” he grumbles, swatting the cover to the floor.

“Got a reason?”

“Yeah. We don’t get mattresses. You try sleeping in my rack for a week and see how your back likes it.“

PO-12 picks up his cover and sets it neatly atop his desk. He checks the chronometer, the slack contentment of Eight-Seven's limbs, and says, "You've got two hours." It's more than he should offer, but the trooper doesn't call him on it. He prepares to sit at the desk; there are still rotas to prepare, evaluations to write. But his hands pause over the buttons of his shirt. He walks over to the bed instead. “Why do you let it bother you so much?” 

To his credit, Eight-Seven doesn't pretend to misunderstand. “I don’t know.” He shifts onto his side, back to PO-12. He waits, knowing better than to try to rush an answer if he wants the truth. “I think- I think, maybe, it’s because he tried.” 

PO-12 sees it clearly in his mind. “He failed.” 

“Yeah,” Eight-Seven sighs, “But at least he tried.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Say again,” PO-12 snaps. He’s exhausted after two back-to-back sorties and a four hour transit back to the _Finalizer_ , so placating an ass like Captain Maruuk is not something he’s in the mood for. Especially when that condescending nasal voice is talking about Eight-Seven. 

“Mind your tone, Lieutenant,” Maruuk scowls officiously. He jabs one gloved finger into PO-12’s chest, “You may hold the Admiral’s favor, but _I_ hold your _leash_.”

PO-12 glances down at the finger, unperturbed. “For now. And if you want to continue benefiting from my _favor_ , Captain, then you can repeat what you just said to me.” 

Maruuk’s cheeks burn red. He fumes, jerking his hand back into a fist at his side so tight the leather of his gloves squeak. PO-12 waits until the Captain visibly composes himself, expression and fists relaxing into a practiced calm superiority. He folds his arms behind his back. “I said your pet trooper is scheduled for reconditioning.” 

PO-12’s heart stops. Maruuk is a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one. “When?”

The bastard mouth curves into a smile. “Immediately.” 

Before his helmet even hits the ground PO-12 takes off like a shot down the passageway, wrestling the panic threatening to cloud his mind into surgical focus. Find Eight-Seven. Get him off the _Finalizer_. The kid is too soft-hearted by half to survive the First Order, aptitude scores be damned. From the moment he’d walked in on the cadet out of his mind with nerves tucked into a small janitorial closet PO-12 had felt something - which was a surprise in itself - that moved him. Moved enough to extend all the protection his rank and reputation could afford even if it meant subjecting himself to men like Maruuk.

A platoon of Stormtroopers march in tight formation ahead. “Make a hole!” He bellows, shoving aside the ones who don’t move quick enough. For some reason, Eight-Seven _matters_ to him. He doesn’t understand it, just like he can’t understand why the morale of his chosen ‘friends’ matters to Eight-Seven. Or his advancement from cadet to FN Corps. Or when they serve his favorite grey ration bars. Or when PO-12 returns alive. That one confuses him the most.

The white plated security droids remain in standby as he sprints through the black antechamber. There’s still time. Hope blooms dangerously in his heart. There are voices on the other side of the large doors. PO-12 readies his blaster and flings them open. FN-2187 stands stripped of both armor and helmet between two other troopers and the unmistakable armor of Captain Phasma. His eyes are wide with terror. 

“POE!” He cries.

Something strikes the back of PO-12’s head and he falls into darkness.

  
  
  
  


Before PO-12 opens his eyes he knows two things for certain. First, that he is restrained. Second, that he is going to die. 

“Not yet,” Says a staticky voice that, for one surreal moment, he is sure is coming through the comlink of his TIE. PO-12 blinks open his eyes carefully because even this dim light is like knives to his brain, and stares up into the sleek mask of Lord Kylo Ren. 

“The traitor awakens,” he says, voice crackling through some sort of modifier in his mask. “Tell me, how long has our best pilot been consorting with the Resistance?” 

PO-12 is stunned. Resistance on the _Finalizer_? The rebels have guts, but that’s a suicide mission. How could a rebel spy hope to blend in on one of the fleet’s most prominent flagships- 

PO-12 sighs heavily. With help from a Lieutenant Commander, that’s how.

FN-2187 is probably dead. And if he isn’t already, then after this interrogation he certainly will be. Dread settles heavily in his stomach as Kylo Ren looms closer. The black of his robes seems to disappear into the shadows like he occupies the whole room, immense and inevitable. PO-12 can see his own blanched face reflected in the chrome. 

“Speak,” He, and something old, something as nearly forgotten as the pale recollections of his childhood-that-never-was ignites and flares to life inside him. 

Eight-Seven is dead.

Eight-Seven is _dead_. 

_Fuck this_. 

“What was that?” He deadpans, “I can’t hear you with all the… apparatus.” 

PO-12 bites his tongue to stop from screaming when, with one raised hand, Kylo Ren invades his mind. It is unlike any violation he has experienced before. Vicious, lingering on every thought of Eight-Seven before rending them to shreds. He senses more than hears Kylo Ren’s amused laugh at his desire to protect Eight-Seven. 

_‘-because he tried.’_

_No._

His own voice. _‘He failed.’_

_Please._

**_You failed._ **

“STOP!” He shouts, rage and indignation incandescent inside so hot it feels like it’s burning him alive. So he hurls it at the dark presence savaging his mind. It is worth it, he thinks, to hear the Force user’s barely audible surprised gasp. He’ll take that sound with him into the relentless void. 

But he doesn’t die. Not immediately. His body arches against the cold metal, lungs seizing until breathing is impossible. The pain is blinding. It feels like being drowned in lightning. 

“You will tell me,” Kylo Ren whispers in his mind, “Everything.” 

PO-12 screams.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
